THE ASTOR HOUSE MESS STILL HOLDS TOGETHER, ALTHOUGH DEPLETED—ALL
MORE OR LESS DISEASED—AS THE WEATHER GETS WARMER THE DEATH RATE
INCREASES—DYING OFF LIKE SHEEP—THE END IS NOT YET.
June 8.—More new prisoners. There are now over 23,000 confined here,
and the death rate 100 to 130 per day, and I believe more than that.
Rations worse.
June 9.—It is said that a grand break will occur soon, and nearly
the whole prison engaged in the plot. Spies inform the rebels of our
intentions. Rains yet.
June 10.—The whole camp in a blaze of excitement. Plans for the
outbreak known to Capt. Wirtz. Some traitor unfolded the plans to
him. Thirty or forty pieces of artillery pointed at us from the
outside, and stockade covered with guards who shoot right and left.
Thirty or forty outsiders sent inside, and they tell us how the
affair was found out. A number of the ringleaders are undergoing
punishment. Hendryx has made his escape, and not been heard of since
yesterday. It is said he went away in full Confederate dress, armed,
and furnished with a guide to conduct him. Dr. Lewis died to-day.
Jack Walker told us about his death. Capt. Wirtz has posted up on the
inside a notice for us to read. The following is the notice:
“NOTICE.
Not wishing to shed the blood of hundreds not connected with those
who concocted a plan to force the stockade, and make in this way
their escape. I hereby warn the leaders and those who formed
themselves into a band to carry out this, that I am in possession
of all the facts, and have made my arrangements accordingly, so to
frustrate it. No choice would be left me but to open with grape and
cannister on the stockade, and what effect this would have in this
densely crowded place need not be told. Signed,
June 10, 1864. H. WIRTZ.”
June 11.—And so has ended a really colossal attempt at escape. George
Hendryx was one of the originators of the plan. He took advantage
of the excitement consequent upon its discovery and made good his
escape, and I hope will succeed in getting to our lines. It is the
same old situation here only worse, and getting worse all the time. I
am not very good at description, and find myself at fault in writing
down the horrible condition we are in.
June 12.—Rained every day so far this month. A portion of the camp
is a mud hole, and the men are obliged to lay down in it. Fort
Pillow prisoners tell some hard stories against the Confederacy at
the treatment they received after their capture. They came here
nearly _starved to death_, and a good many were wounded after their
surrender. They are mostly Tennesseeans, and a “right smart sorry
set.” Battese has taken quite a fatherly interest in me. Keeps right
on at the head of the washing and hair cutting business, paying no
attention to anything outside of his work. Says: “We get out all
right!”
June 13.—It is now as hot and sultry as it was ever my lot to
witness. The cloudy weather and recent rains make everything damp
and sticky. We don’t any of us sweat though, particularly, as we are
pretty well dried up. Laying on the ground so much has made sores on
nearly every one here, and in many cases gangrene sets in and they
are very bad off. Have many sores on my body, but am careful to keep
away the poison. To-day saw a man with a bullet hole in his head
over an inch deep, and you could look down in it and see maggots
squirming around at the bottom. Such things are terrible, but of
common occurrence. Andersonville seems to be head-quarters for all
the little pests that ever originated—flies by the thousand millions.
I have got into one bad scrape, and the one thing now is to get out
of it. Can do nothing but take as good care of myself as possible,
which I do. Battese works all the time at something. Has scrubbed his
hands sore, using sand for soap.
June 14.—Mike Hoare stalks around, cheerful, black and hungry. We
have long talks about our school days when little boys together. Mike
is a mason by trade, and was solicited to go out and work for the
rebels. Told them he would work on nothing but vaults to bury them
in. Is a loyal soldier and had rather die here than help them, as,
indeed, would a majority of the prisoners. To tell the truth, we are
so near death and see so much of it, that it is not dreaded as much
as a person would suppose. We stay here day after day, week after
week, and month after month, seemingly forgotten by all our friends
at the North, and then our sufferings are such that death is a relief
in the view of a great many, and not dreaded to any extent. By four
o’clock each day the row of dead at the gate would scare the life out
of me before coming here, while now it is nothing at all, but the
same thing over and over.
June 15.—I am sick; just able to drag around. My teeth are loose,
mouth sore, with gums grown down in some places lower than the teeth
and bloody, legs swollen up with dropsy and on the road to the
trenches. Where there is so much to write about, I can hardly write
anything. It’s the same old story and must necessarily be repetition.
Raiders now do just as they please, kill, plunder and steal in broad
daylight, with no one to molest them. Have been trying to organize
a police force, but cannot do it. Raiders are the stronger party.
Ground covered with maggots. Lice by the fourteen hundred thousand
million infest Andersonville. A favorite game among the boys is to
play at odd or even, by putting their hand inside some part of their
clothing, pull out what they can conveniently get hold of and say
“odd or even?” and then count up to see who beats. Think this is an
original game here, never saw it at the North. Some of the men claim
to have pet lice which they have trained. Am gradually growing worse.
Nothing but the good care I have taken of myself has saved me thus
far. I hope to last some time yet, and in the meantime relief may
come. My diary about written through. It may end about the same time
I do, which would be a fit ending.
June 16.—Old prisoners (some of them) will not credit the fact that
there is plenty to eat at the North. They think because we are
starved here, that it is so all over. They are crazy (as you may
say) on the subject of food, and no wonder. In our dreams we see and
eat bountiful repasts, and awake to the other extreme. Never could
get a chance to talk with Capt. Wirtz, as he comes inside no more.
Probably just as well. Is a thoroughly bad man, without an atom of
humanity about him. He will get killed, should we ever be released,
as there are a great many here who would consider it a christian duty
to rid the earth of his presence. Disease is taking right hold of me
now. Battese is an angel; takes better care of me than of himself.
Although not in our mess or tent, he is nearly all the time with
us. It is wonderful the powers of endurance he has. I have always
been blessed with friends, and friends, too, of the right sort. Had
quite a talk with Dorr Blakeman, a Jackson, Mich., boy. Was not much
acquainted with him at home but knew his people. Is a thoroughly good
fellow, and a sensible one. It is a relief to see any one who does
not lose his head.
June 17.—Must nurse my writing material. A New York _Herald_ in camp,
which says an exchange will commence the 7th of July. Gen. Winder is
on a visit to Andersonville. Is quite an aged man, and white haired.
Very warm and almost suffocating. Seems as if the sun was right after
us and belonged to the Confederacy. Chas. Humphrey, of Massachusetts,
who has been in our hundred for months, has gone crazy; wanders
about entirely naked, and not even a cap on his head. Many of the
prisoners are crazy, and I only speak of those in our immediate
proximity. Am in good spirits, notwithstanding my afflictions. Have
never really thought yet that I was going to die in this place or in
the Confederacy. Saw a newcomer pounded to a jelly by the raiders.
His cries for relief were _awful_, but none came. Must a few villains
live at the expense of so many? God help us from these worse than
rebels.
June 18.—Have now written two large books full; have another at hand.
New prisoners who come here have diaries which they will sell for a
piece of bread. No news to-day. Dying off as usual—more in numbers
each day as the summer advances. Rebels say that they don’t begin to
have hot weather down here until about August. Well, it is plain to
me that all will die. Old prisoners have stood it as long as they
can, and are dropping off fast, while the new ones go anyhow. Some
one stole my cap during the night. A dead neighbor furnished me with
another, however. Fast as the men die they are stripped of their
clothing so that those alive can be covered. Pretty hard, but the
best we can do. Rebels are anxious to get hold of Yankee buttons.
“Buttons with hens on,” they enquire for. An insult to the American
Eagle—but they don’t know any better.
June 19.—A young fellow named Conely tramps around the prison with
ball and chain on. His crime was trying to get away. I say he tramps
around, he tramps away from the gate with it on at nine in the
morning, and as soon as out of sight of the rebels he takes it off,
and only puts it on at nine o’clock the next morning to report at
the gate duly ironed off. They think, of course, that he wears it
all the time. Jimmy Devers looks and is in a very bad way. Too bad
if the poor fellow should die now, after being a prisoner almost a
year. Talks a great deal about his younger brother in Jackson, named
Willie. Says if he should die to be sure and tell Willie not to
drink, which has been one of Jimmy’s failings, and he sees now what a
foolish habit it is. Michael Hoare stands it well. When a man is shot
now it is called being “parolled.”
June 20.—All the mess slowly but none the less surely succumbing to
the diseases incident here. We are not what you may call hungry. I
have actually felt the pangs of hunger more when I was a boy going
home from school to dinner. But we are sick and faint and all broken
down, feverish &c. It is starvation and disease and exposure that is
doing it. Our stomachs have been so abused by the stuff called bread
and soups, that they are diseased. The bread is coarse and musty.
Believe that half in camp would die now if given rich food to eat.
June 21.—I am a fair writer, and am besieged by men to write letters
to the rebel officers praying for release, and I do it, knowing it
will do no good, but to please the sufferers. Some of these letters
are directed to Capt. Wirtz, some to Gen. Winder, Jeff Davis and
other officers. As dictated by them some would bring tears from a
stone. One goes on to say he has been a prisoner of war over a year,
has a wife and three children destitute, how much he thinks of them,
is dying with disease, etc., etc. All kinds of stories are narrated,
and handed to the first rebel who comes within reach. Of course they
are never heard from. It’s pitiful to see the poor wretches who think
their letters will get them out, watch the gate from day to day, and
always disappointed. Some one has much to answer for.
June 22.—The washing business progresses and is prosperous. One great
trouble is, it is run too loose and we often get no pay. Battese,
while a good worker, is no business man, and will do anybody’s
washing on promises, which don’t amount to much. Am not able to do
much myself, principally hanging out the clothes; that is, laying the
shirt on one of the tent poles and then watching it till dry. All day
yesterday I lay under the “coverlid” in the shade, hanging on to a
string which was tied to the washing. If I saw a suspicious looking
chap hanging around with his eyes on the washed goods, then gave a
quick jerk and in she comes out of harm’s way. Battese has paid for
three or four shirts lost in this way, and one pair of pants. Pays in
bread. A great many Irish here, and as a class, they stand hardships
well. Jimmy Devers losing heart and thinks he will die. Capt. Wirtz
has issued another order, but don’t know what it is—to the effect
that raiding and killing must be stopped, I believe. Being unable to
get around as I used to, do not hear the particulars of what is going
on, only in a general way. New men coming in, and bodies carried out.
Is there no end but dying?
June 23.—My coverlid nobly does duty, protecting us from the sun’s
hot rays by day and the heavy dews at night. Have no doubt but it
has saved my life many times. Never have heard anything from Hendryx
since his escape. Either got away to our lines or shot. Rebels
recruiting among us for men to put in their ranks. None will go—yes,
I believe one Duffy has gone with them. Much fighting. Men will
fight as long as they can stand up. A father fights his own son not
ten rods from us. Hardly any are strong enough to do much damage
except the raiders, who get enough to eat and are in better condition
than the rest. Four or five letters were delivered to their owners.
Were from their homes. Remarkable, as I believe this is the first
mail since our first coming here. Something wrong. Just shake in my
boots—shoes, I mean, (plenty of room) when I think what July and
August will do for us. Does not seem to me as if any can stand it.
After all, it’s hard killing a man. Can stand most anything.
June 24.—Almost July 1st, when Jimmy Devers will have been a prisoner
of war one year. Unless relief comes very soon he will die. I have
read in my earlier years about prisoners in the revolutionary war,
and other wars. It sounded noble and heroic to be a prisoner of war,
and accounts of their adventures were quite romantic; but the romance
has been knocked out of the prisoner of war business, higher than
a kite. It’s a fraud. All of the “Astor House Mess” now afflicted
with scurvy and dropsy more or less, with the exception of Battese,
and myself worst of any. Am fighting the disease, however, all the
time, and the growth is but slight. Take exercise every morning and
evening, when it is almost impossible for me to walk. Walk all over
before the sun comes up, drink of Battese’s medicine made of roots,
keep clear of vermin, talk and even laugh, and if I do die, it will
not be through neglect. Carpenter, the teamster who sold me the
boots, is about gone, and thank the Lord he has received his sixty
cents from me, in rations. Sorry for the poor fellow. Many who have
all along stood it nobly now begin to go under. Wm. B. Rowe, our tall
mess-mate, is quite bad off, still, he has an iron constitution and
will last some time yet.
June 25.—Another lead pencil wore down to less than an inch in
length, and must skirmish around for another one. New men bring
in writing material and pencils. To-day saw a New York _Herald_
of date June 11th, nothing in it about exchange, however. That is
all the news that particularly interests us, although accounts of
recent battles are favorable to the Union side. Our guards are
composed of the lowest element of the South—poor white trash. Very
ignorant, much more so than the negro. Some of them act as if they
never saw a gun before. The rebel adjutant does quite a business
selling vegetables to those of the prisoners who have money, and has
established a sutler stand not very far from our mess. Hub Dakin, an
old acquaintance, is a sort of clerk, and gets enough to eat thereby.
Hot! Hot! Raiders kill some one now every day. No restraint in the
least. Men who were no doubt respectable at home, are now the worst
villains in the world. One of them was sneaking about our quarters
during the night, and Sanders knocked him about ten feet with a
board. Some one of us must keep awake all the time, and on the watch,
fearing to loose what little we have.
June 26.—The same old story, only worse, worse. It seems all the time
it was as bad as could be, but is not. They die now like sheep—fully
a hundred each day. New prisoners come inside in squads of hundreds,
and in a few weeks are _all dead_. The change is too great and sudden
for them. Old prisoners stand it the best. Found a Jackson, Michigan
man, who says I am reported dead there. Am not, however, and may
appear to them yet. Jimmy Devers is very bad with the scurvy and
dropsy and will probably die if relief does not come. Sergt. Rowe
also is afflicted; in fact all the mess except Battese. He does all
the cooking now. He has made me a cane to walk with, brings water
from the well, and performs nearly all the manual labor for us. He
is a jewel, but a rough one.
June 27.—Raiders going on worse than ever before. A perfect
pandemonium. Something must be done, and that quickly. There is
danger enough from disease, without being killed by raiders. Any
moment fifty or a hundred of them are liable to pounce upon our mess,
knock right and left and take the very clothing off our backs. No one
is safe from them. It is hoped that the more peaceable sort will rise
in their might and put them down. Our misery is certainly complete
without this trouble added to it. We should die in peace anyway.
Battese has called his Indian friends all together, and probably a
hundred of us are banded together for self protection. The animal
predominates. All restraint is thrown off and the very Old Harry is
to pay. The farther advanced the summer, the death rate increases,
until they die off by scores. I walk around to see friends of a few
days ago and am told “dead.” Men stand it nobly and are apparently
ordinarily well, when all at once they go. Like a horse, that will
stand up until he drops dead. Some of the most horrible sights that
can possibly be, are common every day occurrances. See men laying all
around in the last struggles.
June 28.—It seems to me as if three times as many as ever before are
now going off, still I am told that about one hundred and thirty die
per day. The reason it seems worse, is because no sick are being
taken out now, and they all die here instead of at the hospital. Can
see the dead wagon loaded up with twenty or thirty bodies at a time,
two lengths, just like four foot wood is loaded on to a wagon at the
North, and away they go to the grave yard on a trot. Perhaps one or
two will fall off and get run over. No attention paid to that; they
are picked up on the road back after more. Was ever before in this
world anything so terrible happening? Many entirely naked.
June 29.—Capt. Wirtz sent inside a guard of fifteen or twenty to
arrest and take out quite a number of prisoners. They had the names
and would go right to their quarters and take them. Some tell-tale
traitor has been informing on them, for attempting to escape or
something. Wirtz punishes very hard now; so much worse than a few
months ago. Has numerous instruments of torture just outside the
gate. Sores afflict us now, and the Lord only knows what next.
Scurvy and scurvy sores, dropsy, not the least thing to eat that
can be called fit for any one, much less a sick man, water that to
drink is poison, no shelter, and surrounded by raiders liable to cut
our throats any time. Surely, this is a go. Have been reading over
the diary, and find nothing but grumbling and growlings. Had best
enumerate some of the better things of this life. I am able to walk
around the prison, although quite lame. Have black pepper to put in
our soups. Am as clean perhaps as any here, with good friends to talk
cheerful to. Then, too, the raiders will let us alone until about the
last, for some of them will get killed when they attack the “Astor
House Mess.” Am probably as well off as any here who are not raiders,
and I should be thankful, and am thankful. Will live probably two
or three months yet. “If t’weren’t for hope the heart would break,”
and I am hopeful yet. A Pennsylvanian of German descent, named Van
Tassel, and who has “sorter identified himself with us” for two or
three months, died a few moments ago. The worst cases of the sick
are again taken to the hospital—that is, a few of the worst cases.
Many prefer to die among their friends inside. Henry Clayton also
died to-day. Was at one time in charge of our Division, and an old
prisoner. Mike Hoare still hangs on nobly, as also do many other of
my friends and acquaintances. Dorr Blakeman stands it unusually well.
Have had no meat now for ten days; nothing but one-third of a loaf
of corn bread and half a pint of cow peas for each man, each day.
Wood is entirely gone, and occasionally squads allowed to go and get
some under guard. Rowe went out to-day, was not able to carry much,
and that had to be divided between a hundred men. One of the most
annoying things is being squadded over every few days, sick and all.
It’s an all day job, and have to stand out until we are all tired
out, never getting any food on these days.
June 30.—A new prisoner fainted away on his entrance to Andersonville
and is now crazy, a raving maniac. That is how our condition affected
him. My pants are the worse for wear from repeated washings, my shirt
sleeveless and feet stockingless; have a red cap without any front
piece; shoes by some hocus-pocus are not mates, one considerable
larger than the other. Wonder what they would think if I should
suddenly appear on the streets in Jackson in this garb. Would be a
circus; side show and all. But nights I have a grand old coverlid
to keep off the wet. Raiders steal blankets and sell to the guards,
which leaves all nearly destitute of that very necessary article.
Often tell how I got my coverlid, to visitors. Have been peddling
pea soup on the streets: “Ten cents in money or a dollar Confed for
this rich soup! Who takes it?” And some wretch buys it. Anything in
the way of food will sell, or water, if different from swamp water.
Rebs making a pretense of fixing up sanitary privileges at the swamp,
which amount to nothing. Strong talk of forming a police force to put
down raiders and to enforce order. If successful it will prove of
great benefit. Sanders, Rowe, Blakeman, Dakin and myself are among
those who will take an active part, although the part I take cannot
be very active. Half a dozen letters sent inside to prisoners, but no
news in them that I can hear of. More hot and sultry, with occasional
rains. The crazy man says nothing but “prayer” will save us. He has
been sucking a bone now for about two weeks and pays more attention
to that than to prayer.
July 1.—Matters must approach a crisis pretty soon with the raiders.
It is said that even the rebels are scared and think they will
have no prisoners, should an exchange ever occur. John Bowen, a
Corp. Christency, Hemmingway, Byron Goodsell and Pete Smith, old
acquaintances, have all died within a few days. Jimmy Devers still
lives, with wonderful tenacity to life. To-morrow he will have been
a prisoner of war a year. Mike Hoare still keeps very well, but the
most comical looking genius in the whole prison. Could make a fortune
out of him on exhibition at the North. He says I look worse however.
That may be, but not so comical. It’s tragedy with the most of us.
New guards are taking the place of the old ones, and it is said
that Wirtz is going away. Hope so. Never have heard one word from
Hendryx since his getting away. Sanders is trying to get outside as
a butcher. He understands the business. “Dad” has been to Australia,
and has told us all about that country. Have also heard all about
Ireland and Scotland. Should judge they were fine countries. Rowe
has been telling me of the advantage of silk under clothing, and in
addition to visiting all the foreign countries, we shall have silk
under wear. Rowe once lived in Boston, and I shall likewise go there.
July 2.—Almost the Glorious Fourth of July. How shall we celebrate?
Know of no way except to pound on the bake tin, which I shall do.
Have taken to rubbing my limbs, which are gradually becoming more
dropsical. Badly swollen. One of my teeth came out a few days ago,
and all are loose. Mouth very sore. Battese says: “We get away yet.”
Works around and always busy. If any news, he merely listens and
don’t say a word. Even he is in poor health, but never mentions it.
An acquaintance of his says he owns a good farm in Minnesota. Asked
him if he was married—says: “Oh, yes.” Any children? “Oh, yes.” This
is as far as we have got his history. Is very different from Indians
in general. Some of them here are despisable cowards—worse than the
negro. Probably one hundred negroes are here. Not so tough as the
whites. Dead line being fixed up by the rebels. Got down in some
places. Bought a piece of soap, first I have seen in many months.
Swamp now in frightful condition from the filth of camp. Vermin and
raiders have the best of it. Capt. Moseby still leads the villains.